


spring lamb

by cleanbrew



Series: knife wives [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/F, Genderbending, all feelgood zero pain, my big gay catharsis (i am sorry), some murder & stuff, the raging antithesis of slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 14:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleanbrew/pseuds/cleanbrew
Summary: "Willow.""My boss told me to come see someone."She ran her fingers over the titles on the shelves, meticulously sorted and alphabetised. Poetry, classics, leather-bound first-editions in cared-for, immaculate condition. Hannibelle, collector of pretty things.





	spring lamb

i. bambi

The body was posed to kneel. Hands cut off at the wrists, head bowed and split open to the neck.

“That’s the Ripper alright,” Beverly muttered with a low whistle.

“IT LOOKS LIKE HIS KNEECAPS WERE BUSTED!” Price yelled from a distance.

Torso scooped clean like a ripe mango. The missing appendages were tucked neatly in the grisly hollow; mismatched direction, palm-to-palm, tied together with twine. Skin had been pulled taut and sewn shut in even stitches over his shattered ribs. Pushing the doors closed on a cupboard of clashing china.

 _You will no longer touch because you are fumbling, dirty, unfit,_ Willow thought.

“The tongue was cut out while he was still alive,” Zeller squinted.

Willow’s head ached. She’d popped several aspirin over the course of the hour, but nothing seemed to work these days. She was twitchy, and unsettled, and in perpetual low-grade pain. The air was thick with the cloying metallic tang of spilled blood and the onset of decay.

“They took the lungs, the liver, well, basically everything. Some other stuff over there by that tree.”

_You will no longer speak if you have nothing worthwhile to say._

Willow's lip curled with distaste.

“Hey, you okay?”

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, the one stiff with the old stab wound. Tension drained out of her like water down a sink, and corpses melted like so much sugar before her eyes.

-

She came to with a blink.

“Oh, hey,” someone chirped, nearby.

Willow took several seconds to calibrate. Here were the facts: she was horizontal, in a bed that felt too comfortable to be hers. Someone else’s, then. A voice she recognised, friendly, female: Beverly. The last thing she saw…the last thing she saw. She was tucked in, and disgustingly warm, and the light was hurting her eyes. She felt like ten year-old gum on the bottom of a well-worn shoe.

“Bev?” She ventured. Her voice cracked.

“You passed out,” Beverly supplied. “I live closest by, and I thought you wouldn’t mind, so I drove us here.”

“Oh.”

The quiet, arrhythmic tapping Willow had been hearing ceased when Beverly finished typing and slammed her laptop shut decisively. She reached over to crack open a bottle of mineral water, pressing it into Willow’s faintly trembling hands. Willow accepted gratefully.

“So, hey, I’m starving, you wanna go get food?”

“I’ve got to get back to my dogs,” she said.

-

Willow’s car was at Quantico because they’d carpooled to the crime scene (and were supposed to make it back), so she flagged a cab home to Wolf Trap.

The dogs were about as pleased to see her as she them. Their tails wagged like little helicopters as they shoved their snouts into her hands and lapped at her fingers. Winston pawed lovingly at her foot and pressed his fluffy head into her knee.

She let them all outside, herded them in with a whistle and made them all dinner. Some time later she couldn’t ignore the gnaw of her empty stomach attempting to digest itself any longer and choked down a hasty sandwich of stale bread and old lunch meat; then slammed a couple fingers of whiskey, stripped down to her underwear and curled up in bed with towels underneath.

At five forty-three a.m. she petted all seven of her pack in turn and smiled at their simple belly-rubbed bliss.

She didn’t sleep.

  


ii. blood in the water

Hannibelle fastened the half-up of her hair with several bobby pins, pushing them in so they were expertly hidden.

Alana Bloom had reached out and invited her for lunch today. By this point in the week Hannibelle had grown quite weary of the uninspired soliloquies her position in the listener’s chair unfortunately exposed her to, and saw no harm in welcoming the reunion as a reprieve. Thankfully, too, Hannibelle recalled that her mentee was in the possession of a reasonably discerning palate; she could be trusted to direct them someplace respectable.

She checked her lipstick a final time - an unassuming, warm-toned nude - and slipped into her slingback heels. Already she had dabbed on a fragrance suited to the occasion, something light, genial, with gentle sillage. She pulled on her coat and smoothed down the collar. The camel-coloured, double-breasted wool blend set the white of her turtleneck and her shoes off rather fetchingly, and had been selected with that express vision in mind. In the reflection of the driver’s side window her earrings, watch, and the hardware of her belt and briefcase gleamed. Pleased, she entered the Bentley and left for Quantico.

Alana received her in the main hallway with a quick hug. “I can’t believe we haven’t done this before,” she smiled. Hannibelle concurred.

“Oh, but, before I forget - I’ve got to deliver this to my colleague, if you don’t mind?” Alana said, waving a folder in the air.

“Case files?”

“Nasty FBI business.”

“May I hazard a guess?”

"I didn't know you kept up with crime."

"One must strive for knowledgeability in all the areas they can reach."

Alana hummed, amused.

“Well, then. You may, but I can neither confirm nor deny.”

Hannibelle smiled and didn’t reply.

Presently they arrived at a classroom. A woman’s voice echoed faintly within. Alana stuck her head round the door, and, presumably noting the absence of students, strode in. Hannibelle followed, observing her surroundings with tangential curiosity. Her gaze settled on the figure at the lectern, back towards them, silhouette haloed by the glare of a projected slideshow.

“The Chesapeake Ripper.”

The speaker flicked through several images, a reel of stiff, pale corpses in assorted permutations, and began pacing.

“They kill in sounders of three. I say sounder, because that’s what they are to them, less than human. Animals. Just...abhorrent, dull…deserving pigs.”

Hannibelle's fingers curled involuntarily, and her mouth dried. She watched the woman halt in her mindless circuit, visibly preoccupied, then shake her head and pick up again. The slide changed.

“A refresher: this is our first known murder, Jeremy Olmstead. The Wound Man. A medical illustration. He was...run through with all the tools in his shed.” She gestured vaguely at the screen, a compilation of high-resolution close-ups.

Another flick, this time to the latest discovery.

“The newest find, congruous with all previous murders. Methodical mutilation prior to death, surgical trophies taken from the scene, not a shred of usable evidence left behind. Deliberate staging of the body, theatrical, like…field kabuki. This is the slaughter of pigs, and demeaning, yes, but it isn’t ugly. It isn’t meant to be ugly.”

Her arms pulled in to wrap around herself, and the motion made obvious the slightness of her frame under the excess of her over-large, threadbare flannel. Her speech, previously clear and evenly modulated in the habit of a seasoned lecturer, trailed off into an absent murmur.

“This is…a favour. The removal and elevation of the unworthy, scouring of the blight, the creation of art. Transformation, the life’s work of a virtuoso, and all…with a touch…of _whimsy_.”

Her breath caught. Something in Hannibelle felt pinned, stroked; deep down a maw yawning open, shivering wide with fresh, aching hunger.

Alana cleared her throat.

“Will? I don’t want to interrupt if you’re rehearsing.”

The woman - Will, unusual, short for something else? - jolted as if shocked out of slumber, and whirled around. Beyond the obstruction of her glasses her eyes were round with surprise, and the riotous fans of her lashes fluttered as she blinked rapidly, coltish, surfacing from a trance.

“Oh, no, no, you’re not. I was just - just talking to myself.”

A laugh, steeped in self-deprecation.

“Jack wanted me to hand you this.” Alana extended the dossier, and Will stumbled forward like a foal unused to its legs, sighing.

Hannibelle took advantage of the general inattention to study her. Curious creature - by the angle of her body towards Alana, and the hunch of her shoulders, it looked as if she at once shunned and craved interaction with another. Sleep deprivation and strain shadowed her eyes, yet her gaze remained keen and crystalline, sharp with intelligence and tantalising promise. A delicious potential of _knowing_ \- the predator in Hannibelle responded with an eager rising to haunches, scenting of the air, claws popping for the weight of that regard.

Shame it seemed fixed to the floor.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will’s head snapped up, mid-rifle through the mysterious folder. She frowned.

“…Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don’t see enough. It’s hard to focus when you’re thinking ‘those whites are really white’, or ‘they must have hepatitis’, or 'is that a burst vein?’. So I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.”

She finished, and gave Hannibelle a slow, purposeful once-over.

“Who are you?”

Clipped, caustic, cagey. Sensing a reason to be defensive, perhaps. Hannibelle, at current moment struck with intrigue outweighing affront, began to respond, but Alana cut in.

“I’ve been remiss. Willow Graham, Doctor Hannibelle Lecter. She was my mentor at John Hopkins.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Willow grunted noncommittally in response.

Hannibelle took her hand in hers, a rough, twitching, mistrustful animal with fangs, and felt inordinately, immeasurably charmed.

-

“I’ve never seen you that interested in anyone,” Alana remarked over her salad. Her fork hovered like an accusatory finger, and she spoke in the tones of a neighbourly gossip.

“Willow Graham is very interesting,” Hannibelle allowed after a beat, there and a million miles away.

  


iii. &

Willow ran a finger along the length of the card. Cream, heavy, embossed in depthless black: Hannibelle Lecter, Psychiatrist. Underneath, a line of numbers in unblinking series. An address for Baltimore. From the back leered a different set of numerals, this time inked in elegant, controlled script.

_"Would you care to meet for dinner?"_

Sense-memory: soft hands, smoothing against hers. The glint of her earrings in low light, polished gold knots that screamed money and hedonism and extremely specific tastes. Her canines revealing themselves as her mouth shaped into the graze of a knife against vulnerable skin.

There was something… _off_ about the doctor, something peeking through the seams of her impeccable dress. Dark and dangerous and lurking in the there-and-gone shifts between one perfectly polite idiosyncrasy and another. So carefully composed, obscured, restrained so as to look natural. And whatever it was had its eye on Willow.

Willow suppressed a shiver, thumbing the curve of the name, her other hand white-knuckled around her cellphone.

-

“Already?”

The human form was barely distinguishable, dismembered and swaddled in cloth as it was. A circle of candles, fat and white and gilding the scene syrupy in Willow’s mind’s eye, surrounded the chrysalis in staccato rhythm. Jane Doe stared unseeing, creamy wax spilling from the gorges of her burnt-out eyes, into an ornate, full-length mirror.

"The Ripper's found inspiration," she managed to choke.

-

"Willow."

"My boss told me to come see someone."

She ran her fingers over the titles on the shelves, meticulously sorted and alphabetised. Poetry, classics, leather-bound first-editions in cared-for, immaculate condition. Hannibelle, collector of pretty things.

"Your boss believes you are in need of psychiatric intervention?"

Willow leaned elbows-first against the railing of the loft, looking down at the doctor. She was dressed in a suit today, loudly pinstriped and no tie. The creases of her trouser legs and the points of her shoes looked like they could cut clean through crystal. Her head was tilted in the manner of a big cat, tranquil at rest and lazily piqued.

"Field work has…taken its toll. I’m not sleeping, I can’t eat, I’m seeing things I don’t want to see. "

Hannibelle blinked, evenly. Her lashes were butterfly-wing bleached in the light.

"So you came here."

"So I came here."

"I must confess, I had hoped to see you again under...less professional circumstances."

"I know."

"Then you must also know that it would be considered unethical for me to oversee your therapy."

"Interesting choice of words there, Doctor. It _would_ be considered unethical. Do ethical boundaries even ping on your radar?”

"I have at times been known to support and employ more...unconventional methods of treatment."

Willow snorted quietly.

"Of course, there is a solution," Hannibelle continued, then paused, ostensibly waiting for a sign of interest. A raised brow proved go-ahead enough.

"We see each other, still, and simply have conversations. I will give you a standing appointment, and I will not give you a rate.”

“You getting anything out of that?”

“We could socialise like adults. God forbid we become friendly."

Willow stifled a smile and settled in the chair opposite Hannibelle’s.

-

_about that dinner. did you have a place in mind?_

_Good evening, Willow. I had planned for you to join me at my home._

_you cook?_

_I find the culinary arts a rewarding pursuit, more so providing for my friends._

_if you say so. when?_

_Perhaps we might continue from after our appointment this week?_

_see you then._

  


iv. in her mouth

She walked in to work and there Hannibelle was, looking for all the world like she owned the place. She barely had a second to tamp down on her incredulity before Hannibelle turned like a dog that had scented its favourite treat.

“Will! I want you to meet Doctor -”

“We’ve met.”

Jack faltered.

“We’ve, uh, brought her in to consult.”

“Not doing good enough of a job for you?”

“Two heads are better than one, as they say,” Hannibelle interjected. She reached behind her and drew out a thermos, from which emanated the rich aroma of some divine brew as she screwed it open with a sharp turn of her wrist.

“You’re hydra-headed all by yourself,” Willow said. Her eyes made grabby hands.

Hannibelle indulged, and was rewarded with a tiny, genuine quirk of the mouth and the press of Willow’s leg against hers, knee-to-thigh.

-

Three months, three more bodies. ‘Conversations’ in Hannibelle’s office, _quid pro quo_ , accompanied by the quiet scratch of her pencil on parchment and the periodic bob of Willow’s throat as she accepted whatever vintage Hannibelle greeted her with. Sometimes whiskey, her pick of poison, sliding down lines of fire deliciously smooth. Willow opened up about her years trawling through various boatyards, and Hannibelle reciprocated with select memories of her childhood in Lithuania.

On occasion, Hannibelle would seat herself at the harpsichord and compose while Willow dozed in an appreciative slump. She slept better. More often than not they shared dinners at Hannibelle’s place, table set for two with…esoteric accompaniments ( _“Skulls and feathers, Hannibelle?” “I have individual tastes.”_ ), volleying pleased glances over the ostentatious several-course masterpiece _du jour_ , and she was well-fed and calmed and no longer felt so frayed at the edges.

And then she found Jeremy Olmstead detailed in painstaking charcoal on Hannibelle’s desk. A conscientious, mathematical replica, bookended by a sheaf of similarly rendered Willows - Willow curled up in Hannibelle's chair before the fireplace countenance soft and sleepy, Willow leafing through a book, Willow looking over her shoulder question in her eyes, Willow pupils dilated and unusually playful, chasing the nectar of fruit off the tines of her fork that one night -

And then a glint in Hannibelle's eye, and then sleeplessness returning with a vengeance, Jack’s number screaming from her phone screen, and then, and then -

The last of this sounder: splayed at the foot of an altar, trailing a swathe of red down the aisle. Cradled in her hands her own heart dripping in gold leaf and honey, stretched out in humble offering.

Technicians milled about the perimeter, having cleared a space for Willow to work. Some were frowning. Price was fiddling with the camera around his neck.

Willow’s head quieted. On impulse, just before she let her lids fall, she turned just a fraction, and _saw_ :

Hannibelle wasn’t looking at the body. She was looking right at Willow.

_Ah._

-

“You’re not driving me home.”

“I am not.”

They had stayed the requisite hours, traipsing dutifully from crime scene to lab. Hemming and hawing over the corpse where appropriate, affecting cool-headed focus when really all they were doing was maintaining a calculated distance.

When they were free to go they left together by unspoken agreement, Hannibelle’s hand at the small of her back, nestled there firm and guiding her towards the Bentley in the lot with no further explanation.

None needed, to be frank. Willow thought if she allowed it that Hannibelle most certainly would have scooped her up like a fainting princess and spirited her away to a metaphorical dungeon (i.e. her place).

Not that she wasn't headed there anyway.

Street lights flashed by as the car charged onward, limning the contours of Hannibelle’s face. She was masterful chiaroscuro made breath and skin, coloured in alternates of bruise-dark shadow and harsh fluorescence. Like this, she looked otherworldly, the cavernous pits of her eyes and juts of her bone painting her some unearthly, untouchable entity.

Willow smudged a kiss along her cheekbone.

“You know, I hadn’t ever seen a Ripper in the flesh. And then I did, and it was like…walking in a museum, looking at art, standing in the shoes of a maestro. I hadn't…felt like that before, with any killer. It was overwhelming. It haunted me, how _beautiful_ it was.”

She watched with unparallelled satisfaction as Hannibelle’s fingers tightened around the wheel, clearly remaining silent with some difficulty.

“I lost sleep, warring with myself. And you, an infuriating shade of a person, drawing me so close, being so _good_ to me - I couldn’t figure out your game. Then you left your sketches out. You did that, you giant ass.”

__

Willow laughed bright and earnest in response to the offended, protesting sound from Hannibelle’s side of the car. She forged ahead before the pluck saw fit to leave her.

__

“I was in limbo for so long. I couldn’t see you then, but I do, now. It’s been a courtship all along, hasn’t it?”

__

She finished with an offhand nip at the tense line of Hannibelle’s jaw, and for her troubles got a hand clamping white-knuckled on her knee and a strained, accented heavier than usual:

“Willow, heart, I am going to _crash this car_."

-

They tumbled in the foyer a mess of greedy hands and greedier mouths. It thrilled Willow to see Hannibelle like this, hair a mess from Willow’s restless fingers, miles away from her typical composure. Her jacket hung half-off her shoulders, tugged at in Willow’s growing desperation to see her naked.

__

You’ll ruin the fabric, darling,” Hannibelle murmured, running her teeth along the tilt of Willow’s neck.

__

Willow categorically could not care less.

__

“Fuck you,” she breathed.

__

"Gladly.”

__

Then Hannibelle sunk to her knees. She spread Willow open and drank from her with animalistic fervour, lapping at her clit warm and slick and talented, pushing into her with smarting force and decidedly not coming up for air until Willow spasmed for a third time around her wicked fingers and ridiculous tongue; swatting at the stupid precious head between her thighs because she’d come so hard there were tears in her eyes and she’d seen nothing but static for a while.

-

It was too late for dinner, but Willow was hungry. Rootling around in Hannibelle’s fridge while she dallied in the shower (probably in the midst of some overcomplicated routine) yielded a punnet of strawberries. Aside from a couple suspect packages of meat, that is, which Willow now knew the provenance of. And, well. If she could make peace with her girlfriend (?) moonlighting as a prolific serial killer, she could deal with _homo sapien_ coincidentally being said girlfriend’s protein of choice.

__

She washed the strawberries.

__

Hannibelle emerged from the shower hair dripping and smelling of bergamot and good candy. She had a robe on, tied loosely at the waist, which slid to reveal a length of bare thigh as she sank into her chair with all the smugness of the freshly-laid and patted her lap in beckoning. Willow rolled her eyes and acquiesced, straddling proffered legs.

__

“Who’s in your fridge?” Willow asked, tapping the end of a de-stemmed strawberry to Hannibelle’s lips.

__

Hannibelle opened up and licked at Willow’s fingers as they retracted. She chewed and swallowed close-mouthed, ever the manner-driven, before answering.

__

“You won’t find them.”

__

“Hmm. How long have you been feeding them to people?” Willow popped a fruit in her own mouth.

__

“Filling in the blanks, _chérie_?”

__

“Yours is an incomplete profile.”

__

“I assure you, I am an open book in your hands.”

__

Willow grinned and leaned in for a kiss, plush and sticky with strawberry. When Hannibelle’s tongue probed at the seam of her lips they fell open easily, and she wound her arms around her neck, pulling her closer.

__

By degrees they parted, Hannibelle nibbling at her bottom lip. Her hands had found Willow’s breasts, toying with her nipples as she squirmed in Hannibelle’s lap.

__

“Mm. Keep that up and I’ll be leaking all over you,” she sighed.

__

“And if that is my goal?”

__

“You’re looking at a second shower, sugar.”

__

Hannibelle seemed unmoved. She redoubled her efforts, shifting to suck a nipple into her mouth. At the same time she plucked a strawberry from the forgotten bowl, and ran it through where Willow was wettest.

__

Willow’s hands tightened in Hannibelle’s hair.

__

“Oh, oh, you’re not -”

__

“Delicious.”

__

  


v. gigolo

Hannibelle had really nice hands. Her nails were filed to uniform, deceptively sweet half-moons, the beds a pleasant, unassuming peach-pink. Her fingers, long, strong and graceful, did things like snap a man’s neck and fuck Willow to earth-shattering orgasm (attested) with unvarying competence.

__

At present moment they were wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, held aloft like a natural extension of her arm. Surrounding her acolytes at the feet of a preacher were tonight’s guests, hanging on to her every word starry-eyed and rapturous as she rhapsodised, visibly impassioned, about something or the other.

__

Something suitably pretentious, Willow surmised. Discussing the new painting they'd acquired, or recounting the opera they’d been to lately. There had been actual tears in Hannibelle’s eyes. Willow can’t believe she’s in love.

__

“Willow,” Hannibelle called, half-turned from her audience.

__

Presumably she’d been alerted to her lover’s presence by the click of her heels out of the boudoir and down the (carpeted!) stairs. Hyperosmia ( _“Did you get rid of my perfume?” “I wouldn’t go so far as to term that..._ swill _...perfume, dearest,”_ ) and now the illusory canine ears Willow could see pricked up, swivelled in her direction, standing at attention - Hannibelle was basically the latest addition to her ragtag pack.

__

She pondered the reaction the comparison would garner. A scoff, or a dismayed sneer, maybe. More likely that she’d be tickled pink. She’d enjoy being referred to, in any respect, as a recipient of Willow’s unconditional affection.

__

Willow consciously stopped herself before she made an undignified sound. She glanced upward through her lashes, appraising Hannibelle from her position midway down the stairs.

__

Hannibelle...had her body angled towards Willow in open invitation, sharp in her stark-white pantsuit and power in all the lines of her physique. Her unoccupied hand was posed outstretched, palm-up, a siren’s lure. In the low light of the room she cut the intimidating figure of a modern, androgynous Adonis, carved from marble fine-edged and beautiful.

__

But touchable, so touchable. And hers. Willow’s eyes trailed over the gossamer fringe of her lashes, the beloved slopes of her cheekbones, the bow of her upper lip, and felt abruptly hungry for the taste of her skin. Chocolate-dark, Hannibelle’s gaze glinted with the same regard she afforded select works of art. Her mouth lifted almost imperceptibly in the corner as Willow crossed the distance, taking her place beside the doctor.

__

“My partner, Willow Graham.”

__

Willow shook hands and smiled. She nodded politely and responded genially to conversational cues, intermittently contributing to small talk. Mentally, she was knee-deep in a stream, and weighing the pros and cons of stabbing Hannibelle.

__

After a period of insufferable schmoozing, during which Hannibelle had taken the opportunity to wind a proprietary arm around Willow’s silk-clad waist and press her so far into her side she could feel the warmth of her body through the layers separating them, Willow arrived at the conclusion that one of Hannibelle's linoleum knives would not find a new home in her gut.

__

Tonight was for Hannibelle. If it pleased her to see Willow dolled up entirely for her benefit, squeezed into a slinky, clingy affair she’d picked out, moisturised and perfumed and styled and made-up to within an inch of her life just so she could hang off her arm like a singularly darling and exclusive accessory; then. She could put up with it. Hannibelle had put up with the fishing and the dogs and the shitty morning-after coffee with remarkable grace and aplomb.

__

Alas! A conversational lull.

__

Willow wrapped her hand around Hannibelle’s free wrist, relishing the contrast of her garnet-dark nails and her pale fingers against Hannibelle’s smooth golden skin. She guided Hannibelle’s half-empty glass of wine - still nestled in her surgeon’s steady grasp - to her lips. Hannibelle followed the motion serenely. Steady, always so steady.

__

She pictured knocking Hannibelle off-balance, just so the glass would tip. Envisioned Hannibelle’s quiet gasp, her controlled stumble, the slosh of wine over the edge of the glass. The sudden vacuum in the inane buzz around them, a blessed absence of sound. Then, in flashes: herself, following rivulets of burgundy down the contours of Hannibelle’s bones with her tongue. Lapping it up from between her knuckles, sucking the last of it from the pads of her fingers with enough force that individual prints branded themselves on the insides of her willing, eager mouth.

__

As if sensing the perilous orientation of her thoughts, Hannibelle met her gaze over the rim of the glass, and her fingers twitched under Willow’s. She leaned in and nuzzled her cheek, inhaling subtly. Her eyes were blazing, trained on the bob of Willow’s bared throat.

__

Willow wanted to go to her _knees_.

__

“You look stunning tonight, _amore_ ,” Hannibelle purred in her ear, voice dripping with honey.

__

“You dressed me.”

__

Earlier: Hannibelle sliding her hands up the slit in her dress, running them over the insides of Willow’s parted thighs. Her fingers, creeping under the plunging neckline, palming Willow’s breasts and pinching at her nipples until she grumbled and shooed her away. And then returned the favour as Hannibelle pulled her suit on.

__

“Still. Gorgeous, ravishing, devastatingly _edible_.”

Willow snickered. Hannibelle set the now-emptied glass down on one of her side tables- a wilful transgression, by her standards - and tucked a stray curl behind Willow’s diamond-adorned ear. The rest of her newly-shorn locks lay slicked back with product; Willow thought with no small measure of mirth that the back of her head resembled a melanistic spring lamb’s coat. Along with the expanses of skin that the dress bared (more than she cared for) and the shocking crimson of her lipstick, she likely presented the image of a vulnerable, delicate, slightly trashy Snow White of sorts. (If Snow Whites thought about killing for a living and murdered in their down time, anyway. And also ate the people her partner cooked.)

Hannibelle’s eyes were familiarly heated, half-lidded, and darted from Willow’s fond gaze to the tempting, plump curve of her bottom lip. She leaned in closer, sharing the same air now, eyes fluttering shut -

“Doctor Lecter!” someone boomed.

Hannibelle’s eye twitched faintly as she pulled away. Watching, Willow hid a smile that threatened to grow teeth, and ghosted a consoling touch down the length of Hannibelle’s forearm. They turned to meet the voice.

“Good evening, Uncle Jack.” Hannibelle addressed the interloper glibly (blandly).

The man strode forward, adjusting his jacket.

“Hello, Will.”

“Hello.”

He paused, then launched into rhetoric. “Look, I know you asked for time off, but there’s been another. Are you sure you can’t -”

"There's always going to be another."

"Will -"

“Perhaps you might broach the subject another time, Uncle Jack,” Hannibelle interrupted, feeling Willow begin to stiffen and prickle beside her. “In a different setting. After all, Willow and I have gathered our friends today in celebration, and I find discussing work rather objectionable.” She uncoiled her arm to lace their fingers in an intimate hold, their matching rings clinking.

“Of course. Congratulations, by the way,” Jack acceded, off-rhythm. “And you have a lovely home.”

With that, Willow and Hannibelle graciously excused themselves, sweeping away to the kitchen, where several hired chefs laboured over finishing touches (and were very determinedly Not Looking at the couple).

“I believe all of our guests are now in attendance,” Hannibelle hummed into the crook of Willow’s neck. The warmth of her breath sent a frisson of pleasure down her spine.

“Starting dinner, then?”

Hannibelle withdrew like it pained her to do so, her hands roving the stretch of Willow’s exposed back. Her fingers traced the notches of her spine. With her heels on, Willow was Hannibelle’s height, and she didn’t have to crane upwards as she usually did to press a kiss to Hannibelle’s mouth.

Hannibelle tasted headily of the wine they’d shared. Willow could spend - had spent - hours kissing her, losing herself in the taste and scent and warmth of her lover. She loved it - the slick, sensuous slide of their tongues, the flutter of her impossible lashes on Willow’s cheek. The points of her teeth that snagged on her lip, left her panting when they insinuated themselves in her neck, her belly, her thighs.

When far longer than appropriate had elapsed, they separated, equally hesitant. Willow raised a hand up to cradle the side of Hannibelle’s face, feeling unfathomably full to the brim with devotion. Hannibelle’s eyes were lidded, and her lips, spit-slick and shiny and smudged scarlet with Will’s lipstick, were parted in pleasure.

“...Starting dinner,” she exhaled.

**Author's Note:**

> and then they fed everyone people, and they got hitched, and went on a nice murder-y honeymoon, and i sob into my hands bc i am a loser & also quite sorry 
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you for stopping by! I bashed this out because I just really wanted an excuse to write hedonistic murder wives. This is very evidently the work of my last two brain cells. Please feel free to roast me in the comments or send anything else my way. Like assassins or something. Have a nice day!


End file.
